O bliss of the purified! bliss of the free!
I plunge in the crimson tide opened for me;
O'er sin and uncleanness exulting I stand,
And point to the print of the nails in his hand.
CHORUS
O! sing of his mighty love,
Sing of his mighty love,
Sing of his mighty love!—
Mighty to save.
O bliss of the purified! Jesus is mine;
No longer in dread condemnation I pine;
In conscious salvation, I sing of his grace,
Who lifteth upon me the light of his face.
O bliss of the purified! bliss of the pure!
No wound hath the soul that his blood cannot cure;
No sorrow-bowed head but may sweetly find rest,
And be in his presence forevermore blest.
O Jesus the crucified! thee will I sing,
My blessed Redeemer, my God, and my King;
My soul filled with rapture shall shout o'er the grave,
And triumph o'er death in the "Mighty to save."